Science Fiction

August 5 2019

I loved science fiction, as a child,

when it went unsaid

that the world would get better

    ...or at least in the fullness of time.

And then we went to the moon

thought flying cars would be next,

and got computers in our pockets

that let us hear what we wanted said.

But still, the wars went on.

And from the carnage of Pol Pot

to Biafra/Rwanda/Myanmar

the genocides kept happening

as we comfortably looked away.

So that now

young men are saluting like Nazis

and courtesy is collapsing

and southern preachers are ranting

about God and guns and sex;

their plump pink faces

beaded with sweat

as the collection plate is passed.

How they smirk at global warming

so confident in their Lord,

who gave unto us dominion

and wouldn't destroy His creation

or lead us into death.

I write this

after 31 died

at the hands of violent racists,

in the land of the free

where guns are freely obtained.

And where I feel increasingly numb

at another such atrocity,

the tired litany

of thoughts and prayers and blame.

In a time

when Trump defiles the White House

and the left competes to be pure

and the right persists in obstructing

for tribalism and money,

a smugly smiling Mitch McConnell

summing up our cynical age.

Meanwhile, the planet burns

and the seas will soon engulf us,

the lethal result

of inertia, denial, greed.

Of our criminal inaction

as we let our phones distract us

and life go seamlessly on,

incrementally simmering

like the slowly boiling frog.

While those who care

feel crushed by despair,

the powerlessness of one.

Yes, we have become more aware

of what makes the good life

and how our fate is shared;

that happiness

is not about wealth,

and it took much more

than the self-made man

to really make himself.

Nevertheless

the fiction never came true,

and despite our dazzling cleverness

we have failed to better ourselves.

So 50 years from Woodstock

the hippies are mostly dead

and the poor are no less desperate

and the earth is under stress

as it's never been before.

Science helped get us here.

But technology

cannot change human nature,

and if character is destiny

then our fate is painfully clear.

A blurb seems superfluous here. Because the poem speaks for itself.

Perhaps even more, just the fact that is was written. Because I don't really approve of political poems, and think arguments like these are best made in prose: in essays and articles and self-indulgent rants. So to write such a poem betrays my deep frustration, my feelings of utter impotence, my exasperation at seeing everything repeat without any real change.

The immediate impetus for this was day in which 20 were killed in a shooting at a Walmart in El Paso, and another 9 at a shooting at a bar in Dayton. Countless more were wounded. I know I have to be specific about these two incidents. Because otherwise, with so many mass killings and gun deaths in the US, a curious reader would have to cross reference by date to recall them. We have become inured to such events: numb, desensitized, forgetful. They all meld together: the same lame appeals to thoughts and prayers; the same inaction wrt to gun laws; the same denial of the dangers of right wing extremism (not to mention how it has been enabled by a despicable President and his own spineless enablers). ...You see, this is more satisfying in prose!

Parkette

Aug 3 2019

Long days, in August,

and after a good rain

the grass is lush,

a deep saturated green.

Especially in this descending sun;

how it catches the light

and seems to incandesce,

a luminous jewel

amidst the shadows

that will soon snuff it out.

Soft, under bare feet,

broad succulent leaves

in well-aerated soil

still spongy from rain.

Like a cool balm

to my over-heated skin,

the well-manicured lawn

of this small parkette

is a sanctuary

amidst encroaching city streets,

their asphalt and concrete

radiating the accumulated heat

of a long summer day.

The smell of fresh-cut grass

intoxicates me.

Combined with the 2-stroke machine,
its volatile exhaust

gassing-off 

and transporting me back to childhood,

mowing the lawn, in late afternoon.

The small engine rattle

like soothing ballast

to habituated ears.

And then the silence

that never fails to startle

when the machine abruptly stops.

The loudness you get

from the absence of sound.

It is twilight, now

and the grass is a darker shade of green.

Sparkling

with perfect spheres of dew,

a tiny drop

clinging to each blade.

Circling Back

July 15 2019

If the goal of meditation is to still the mind

I would rather busy myself.

To let my mind wander

as it does when I walk,

the body like a metronome

as step follows step

and thoughts run free as jazz.

The stream of consciousness

that listens closely to itself.

That plays by ear,

intuitive, and improvised.

Is free to digress

but also formalized,

the structured score

the disciplined habit of thought.

The propulsive beat

and gut response,

scat, riff, bebop

cool, swinging, hot.

And that final held note,

as if lingering on air

when the music stops.

How many poems

have come to me

trudging through the woods,

reassured

that the parts I will forget

are not worth remembering?

We are built for it,

the walking animal

who has spread to the ends of the earth

and is no less restless now.

It has been 50 years

since the first man

left the gravity of earth

and saw the planet whole,

a blue and green sphere

in the blackness of space.

Since the first man

walked on the moon

and left his footprints there.

Still perfectly intact,

pressed

into fine-grained sand

in the starkly angled light.

While the bright stars and stripes,

has become tattered and dulled,

the merciless power

of unfiltered sun

on man-made material.

And the landing stage

like a squat metallic bug

propped on splayed spider-legs

remains where we abandoned it,

an alien thing

stranded for good.

The Sea of Tranquility,

so ironically named

in a century preoccupied

with genocide and war.

They went all the way to the moon

only to take a walk,

trampling, rambling, sauntering

looking up at earth.

I walk

under a full moon

on a clear summer night.

A man alone

instead of the legions it took

to conceive

construct

and launch,

then bring them home.

Safe, half a century on

in this soft silver light

from the deadly contingencies

and countless might-have-beens

that somehow all went right.

But still, the same as me

the first man walked

and circled back

and left his mark.

The same slow steady gait

that took us out of Africa

and then into space.

Did he, too, listen to the silent thoughts

that play like jazz,

bouncing about

like a giddy child

on that first moon walk?

When the 3 lbs

of gelatinous matter

in the skull's black box

are free to improvise,

expanding out

to fill the universe.

Or, with an ear cocked close

probe inward.

I forgot about the moon landing 50 years ago this month. But it's been all over TV, and I've been sitting rapt, watching the archival footage I never saw on the small black and white TV that was set up in the dining hall of the summer camp I attended, squinting over the heads of the tired but exuberant crowd, well past our regular bedtime. I was 14 in 1969.

I notice the anachronisms: almost all men, most young and white, in shirts and ties, many smoking cigarettes and pipes. But it feels contemporary, as well. Because to me, the cars seems so familiar I find myself forgetting how far in the past this was. And because people do not change, even if fashion does. And because the technology still looks impressive, the buildings modern, the quality of the film immaculate. Not just immaculate, but stunning in how comprehensive it is: how they documented every aspect of this great adventure, clearly so very conscious of their place in history. Which reminds me, as well, of the Cold War, the reason for the moon shot in the first place: how secretive the Communists were, afraid the world might see them fail; and how open and fearless the Americans were, sharing their triumph -- and potential failure -- with all mankind.

It was the same year as Woodstock, which has also been on TV. Watching part of that long documentary film, I am reminded not only of the great music, but of the anti-war protesters and assassinations and the 60s counter-culture that was so at odds with the Cape Canaveral of Apollo. Of the of the idealism and hedonism and changelessness of youth, and of the self-importance of “now”. Of all those beautiful young men and women, all lithe and tanned and hip, who must now be in their 70s.

I wanted to write a poem about Apollo 11, but then thought that the things I wanted to say lent themselves more to prose. At the same time, I've been encountering a lot of articles about walking: reflections on walking and the role it played for some of the great figures of literature; walking as a political act that stubbornly rebuts the modern exigencies of speed and convenience and productivity; the humility of being in nature, the need for unstructured thought, and walking as a form of meditation.

So I started to write, when halfway through I recalled the image of Neil Armstrong's boot-print on the moon. So much technology, collective effort, blood and treasure, and human ingenuity; and all of it for the sake of a man taking a walk on the moon. Which is really all that was done when he and Buzz Aldrin got there. Sure, there were some obligatory scientific experiments, left to run by themselves. There was the flag, a necessary gesture of nationalism to appease the politicians. There were the rocks they brought back, that told us whatever it is rocks have to say. But mostly, it was that exhilarating walk, as well as the tell-tale footprints that will remain on the moon's rugged surface, unchanged for millennia.

Demarcation

July 26 2019

Paddling

into the wind-shadow

in the small island's lee

its battered trees leaning

exposed rock

thin tenacious soil,

the sudden calm startled me.

The roar of wind lifted

and only silence remained,

as the tension left my body

the canoe drifted lazily

my hands released their grip.

Alone with my thoughts

in this unlikely oasis of peace,

snuggling in

behind its gently curving shore.

We crave interludes like this,

where time time slows

ambition wanes

and our dubious labours

reap their just rewards.

In a wind as stiff as this

the line is sharp

between the protected lee

and open water.

If only life

were as unambiguously ruled.

I look down

at my blurred reflection

in the flatly mirrored surface

pondering 

my imperfect self.

Lean back

and look out at the churning lake,

its darkened surface

white-flecked waves.

Cats-paws that race,

touching down

then spinning out.

The only way home

is back through the squall.

So I gather myself

tighten my grip

brace my knees.

Nose out

over that hard line of demarcation

and feel the wind's powerful hand

grab the bow

whip it around

scoot me down before it.

Overpowering

my futile stroke.

This is the time of year when I'm out in the canoe a lot. Paddling solo, accompanied by the dogs. They mostly swim, cruise through the shallows, or deke along the shore; where I'm sure, by now, they've created their own rough paths through the dense underbrush. Poems sometimes come to mind as I paddle.

Rhythmic activities like this are good for getting lost in thought. Like walking. Or X-C skiing on consistent terrain, when your body finds its pace and your mind drifts off. Or swimming, especially in open water, when you can settle into autopilot without the distraction of bulkheads and buoy lines.

Eddying out of a stiff wind into the calm lee of an island is such a great relief. A time to pause, to sit back and gather yourself, to enjoy the scenery. Rare “time-out” moments like this occur in life, as well; moments to be cherished and explored; moments for introspection. It wouldn't have been enough to have written a poem of simple description. Especially one with which most readers wouldn't easily identify. So it needed to be rescued with a more ambitious allusion. I hope that attempt at a more universal and accessible message doesn't strike the reader as over-reach or pretension.

Beached

July 17 2019

One of those old folding chairs

with an aluminum tube frame

and broad criss-crossing strips

of faded nylon webbing

that dimple your legs

with small even squares

if you sit long enough.

And where your thighs sweat,

sticking to the seat

as you peel yourself off.

He was paunchy and pale,

knobbly knees

splayed up and out.

In the kind of old-school swimwear

my father called “trunks,”

baggy

high-waisted

invariably brown.

Beer in hand

he was leaning back

with imperial insouciance,

surveying the shore

as if he had staked the land

and now claimed ownership.

The sweet chemical smell

of budget suntan oil

slathered on
to hot flushed skin,

a whiff of stale cigarette.

Gulls swooped and squawked

tinny music played

and small waves brushed the shore

as regular as breathing.

A high sun

flattened everything,

beating down and bleaching out,

leaching the strength

from the beached human bodies

that thronged the sand,

inertly sprawled

in its implacable glare.

The castle

the children had made

in all its ramshackle glory,

bossing and bickering and working things out,

but was built too close to the tide.

Like an hourglass

I watched time running down

as the water slowly crept up.

Beefsteak

July 10 2019

A bread knife works best.

Its serrated edge sharpened

by drawing it slowly over the whetstone

with a gentle touch,

just the weight of the blade

resting lightly against

the hard pebbled rock.

The verb, as well as the noun,

it knifes cleanly through

the ripe round tomato

so barely any liquid is lost.

Until the sound of tempered steel

rasping across

the heavy wooden cutting-board,

well-burnished and worn

and intricately scored

by so many knives before,

gorgeously stained

by the juice of a thousand tomatoes.

It sits face up, rocking slightly,

deep red pulp

and rosy-yellow liquor

laced with small gilded seeds

glistening

in the incandescent light,

a homegrown tomato, freshly plucked.

Like snowflakes

each centre-cut tomato

is exquisitely unique,

a cross-section

exposing the inner world

of a still-living thing.

Its red

is the definitive version

against which all other reds are compared.

Its smell is tomato,

a mix of floral, acid, sweet.

And its flesh is umami,

slightly carnal, savoury, beef.

Quarter it, with the same honed blade

drawn lightly through its meat.

Slip a slice between my lips,

savouring it slowly

eyes shut.

This is a form I love returning to, and often do: microcosm, and close observation. I think this is really the essence of the poetic sensibility, a mindset that requires you slow down, take notice, surrender to your physical senses, and let the world come to you with as little preconception as possible. If anyone is to pay attention to the cliched dictum “slow down and smell the roses”, it has to be poets. Maybe because we aren't expected to do anything useful. And because we have the freedom to write at length or at short, to end the lines where we choose, and to try to see the world as if for the first time.